


Those American Thighs

by thepinupchemist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Image, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Heterosexual Sex, Schmoop, Self Confidence, Self Confidence Issues, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donna Hanscum's vacation goes awry when she hears somebody cry out on the beach. After stepping in to rescue a familiar face, her holiday to California vastly improves with burgers, cookie dough milkshakes, and Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those American Thighs

**Author's Note:**

> for [crepuscularmusings](http://crepuscularmusings.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

**Chapter Track: You Shook Me All Night Long – AC/DC**

**_Those American Thighs_ **

Donna Hanscum was overdue for a vacation – at least, that’s what the guys told her before they foisted her away for two weeks so that she’d take the time off. It hadn’t been that she didn’t want a vacation, more that it was easier to diet if she poured her feelings into work and didn’t have any left when she came home at the end of the night.

Thing about using up your feelings, though, is that it makes you tired as heck. And when you’re tired as heck, work at the station takes ten times the energy than it typically does. Donna only admitted that she may possibly have needed a break when one of her officers caught her asleep with her head down on her desk and her hand curled around a mug of cold coffee.

“C’mon, Sheriff, you’ve got tons of vacation time saved up,” they’d urged.

She still hesitated. The last time that Donna had taken a vacation was years ago, when she decided to try out the Canyon Valley wellness spa.  It had all seemed like it was going so well, except that some serial killer got on the loose and her vacation went down the proverbial toilet. It was just another feather in the Everything-Going-Wrong-For-Donna cap.

So, okay, maybe she did deserve a vacation.

It’s how she ended up here, in a reasonably-priced hotel only a short walk away from the beach in sunny southern California. She bought a new one-piece for the occasion. She’s come to some kind of peace with her body, but not quite enough to tie on a bikini. The one-piece is cute anyway, a red halter swimsuit patterned with white polka dots.

When she looks in the mirror before her evening walk along the beach, it’s one of the first times that she’s felt confident in a swimsuit since high school. Granted, she has on some denim shorts over it and her thighs still look pretty big, but Donna’s starting to think that maybe big thighs aren’t the end of the world.

The sun setting against the Pacific is a sight that Donna could get used to. She’ll miss it when she goes back to work at the station, though she’s starting to miss her work while she stays here, anyway. She thinks that if she got to see this sunset every night that maybe it wouldn’t be as special as it is on her vacation away from it all.

She takes stairs down to the beach, avoiding the crowds still teeming at the pier at Santa Monica. The lights are on and it looks beautiful against the darkening sky. Donna reaches into her canvas beach bag and pulls her cheap little digital camera out to snap a quick picture. Whether or not it’ll look as good on her computer as it does on her camera is up in the air – Donna’s a much better sheriff, cook and quilter than she is a photographer.

Even with so many people still out on the beach, it’s a wonderful evening. There are some shirtless college-age boys playing a heated game of volleyball that pique her interest, and she watches them from a safe distance for a few minutes before she moves on. Their pier shrinks further and further behind her and so does the activity on the beach, winding down to the errant jogger with toned arms and headphones in their ears.

Donna wishes that she liked jogging sometimes, but she also looks much less graceful than the athletes pounding the sand around her.

When at last everyone is out of sight, the sun is barely peeking from the edge of the ocean, and the world is gray-blue and dim. It’s still just light enough, so Donna unfolds her beach towel from her bag and lowers herself down. This has been the best part of her vacation: sitting on the beach when the temperature drops just a few degrees and reading the book that she brought with her, _The Dashing Duke_. This is better than shopping and finally spending all the money that she’s been piling away like a squirrel stockpiling nuts in a tree. It’s even better than the ‘to hell with it’ that she gave her strict diet regimen and the pizza and ice cream and cotton candy that came after that.

Donna’s only read a few more pages of Lady Emily Winthorpe, and her antics that capture the attention of a duke, when she hears it. There’s a shout, deep and masculine.

It sounds like somebody’s hurt.

Donna doesn’t bother to mark her page. She can’t see anybody on either side of her, but maybe the shouter is on the other side of the cliff jutting out into the sand? She starts to run, which is harder than it should be in flip-flops and beachwear, but knowing that somebody might need help propels her past the protest of her body.

 _There they are_.

It’s hard to see in the fading light, but one person has another pinned down in the sand. And, oh criminy, there’s a knife. She ditches her flip-flops for speed and with a leap, just as the knife sails down, she tackles the attacker to the ground. Out of habit, she yanks their arms behind their back.

In the next second, the attacker bucks Donna off of their back and – oh. The perp is one of the most gorgeous women that Donna’s ever seen, like something straight out of the glossy pages of Cosmopolitan.

But then she opens her mouth, and Donna gasps.

“What in all the –” she says, and stares straight into a mouth of long, thin, razor-sharp teeth. She must be hallucinating. This _can’t_ be real. The woman leaps on top of her and holds her down with brute, nightmarish strength.

“She’s not a man,” says a voice behind them.

The woman falters, lips falling over her terrifying teeth and twisting into a sneer. She turns back and says, “I know that. But I have to eat, hunter. And she’ll just have to do.”

“I don’t think so.”

‘Hunter’ steps forward, and Donna startles when she’s looking at a familiar face – one of the handsome FBI agents that were after the Canyon Valley killer. He has a gun in his hands, pointed directly at the woman.

“You can’t kill me with that,” the woman laughs, “Idiot hunter.”

“Yeah?” he says back, and pulls the trigger. Blood spatters over Donna’s new swimsuit and the woman goes slack, falling to the side. He mutters, “Bronze bullet, bitch.”

“You,” Donna breathes, “You’re one of those FBI agents – what was that – why are you here?”

He glances up and recognition dawns on his face. He says, “Well, I’ll be damned. If ain’t Sheriff Donna. That right there was a selkie. Ain’t nearly as poetic as they are in the lore, you know. They shed their skin,” – he gestures with his gun to a pile of something a few yards away – “seduce some idiot sap and then feed on him. This joint is a freaking selkie buffet. You seen how many idiots there are out here?”

“Selkie?” she echoes. She’s read a few romances with a selkie heroine. They definitely were described as being as beautiful as the dead woman on top of her, although none of them had a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.

“Yeah,” he says, “Look, I’ll level with you,” before he offers her a hand. He pulls her up to her feet and goes on, “I’m not an FBI agent. I’m a hunter.”

“What’s…that? ‘Cause I’m takin’ it you aren’t hunting any deer,” she says, and folds her arms over her chest.

“Means I gank any son of a bitch that ain’t natural,” he says, “and my name’s Dean, for the record. I’m sorry about your swimsuit. Blood’s hell to get outta clothes. You wanna take my jacket?”

Only then does Donna realize that it would not look good to show up in a populated area covered in blood. She sighs and says, “That’s probably for the best. What do we do about hhherr…” She trails off and sees in the sand at her feet not a beautiful woman, but a speckled seal. She purses her lips and says, “Selkie, huh?”

“Hey, at least your first fugly wasn’t a rugaru. ‘Cause that shit’s a whole separate box of crayons,” Dean says.

“I’m not sure what a rugaru is, but I’ll take your word for it,” Donna says.

Dean sheds his jacket after that and offers it to her. Donna pushes her arms through the too-big sleeves and doesn’t so much mind that the jacket hangs off of her in an odd way, because it’s warm and smells like Dean on the inside, like masculine soap and sweat.

“So,” Dean says, “What’re you doin’ down here, anyway?”

“Vacation,” she says, and then it dawns on her. She whirls around to meet Dean’s eye and says, “Wait a minute, there wasn’t a serial killer at Canyon Valley, was there?”

Dean grabs at the back of his neck, “No, ma’am. A rogue Peruvian fat-sucker.”

“A rogue – nevermind,” she says, and shakes her head. She sighs when they come across her little campsite. It’s untouched, being on such an unpopulated part of the beach, but it still makes her sad that she couldn’t just have her vacation. Donna leans down to pick up her towel and roll it up. When she stands, Dean sticks her book out at her.

“ _The Dashing Duke_ , huh?” he says, “Any good?”

Donna takes the book with heat on her cheeks. She expected him to tease her for her taste in reading material. She replies, “It’s pretty decent. Definitely a page-turner, you know.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that, just walks quietly alongside her. The pier grows nearer and Donna finds herself wondering what she’s supposed to do once she gets back to her hotel room. The last few days of her vacation just won’t be the same now that she’s almost been killed by a _selkie_.

“Hey,” Dean says, “I’m sorry your vacation got all fucked up. Twice. What would you say to some burgers? You know, to make up for this.”

Burgers are definitely another violation of her diet.

So, yes. She’d like that.

Donna smiles and says, “Burgers sound great.”

“Cool,” Dean says, “I found this really awesome little joint a couple blocks up from the beach.”

“I should change my clothes, first,” Donna says, “My hotel’s real close, though.”

**X**

Having Dean on the sofa in her hotel room makes her a little self-conscious. She wonders if she should try to salvage what’s left of the evening and dress herself up a little, but then wonders if Dean would even care. Still, instead of going for her suitcase, she reaches for one of her shopping bags and slips into the sundress that she bought yesterday afternoon.

Donna is pleased to find that it looks just as nice as it did yesterday in the dressing room.

And, after cleaning the speckle of blood off of her face, she even looks a little pretty.

When Donna slips back into her flip-flops and emerges from the bathroom, she’s greeted by an easy grin. Dean offers a hand and says, “Hey, you look real nice.”

“Oh,” Donna says, “Thank you.”

Dean winks, and she doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just smiles back and fidgets.

The place that Dean leads her to is a tiny little diner-like place on the corner of one block. It’s crowded with people still in beachwear, laughing over plastic baskets of hot chicken fingers and striped cups of fries. The hostess leads them to a small booth near the back and passes them menus.

“Too bad you aren’t on the menu,” Donna says without thinking, and then shrugs. To hell with it. She’s on vacation. She’s going to get a burger and a milkshake feel great in her spunky little sundress, and she’ll tell handsome men that she’d eat them up if she could.

Dean lets out a low bark of laughter but quiets before he says, “Who says I’m not?”

Donna lifts her brows at that.

“I’m just sayin’,” Dean grins, “Offer’s out there. Gotta admit, I’m a little turned on by you saving my butt back there.”

“It’s hard not to save a butt like that,” Donna replies.

Dean’s smile never drops, not once throughout the entire meal. He grins when they order and grins when Donna starts to blabber with excitement at the fact that there are cookie dough milkshakes listed on the drinks menu. It even looks like Dean’s smiling when he bites into his enormous cheeseburger. They flirt in between chewing. The further they get, the faster Donna’s heart starts to beat.

She’s flirting with a sexy guy and he’s flirting back.

She’s flirting with a sexy guy that she has no intention of seeing after one night, and she’s enjoying it.

Donna’s never done something like this before.

It’s – thrilling.

Dean covers the bill as promised, but Donna insists on covering the tip for their perky brunette waitress. Dean owed her a little something for the rescue stunt, but this is still her vacation and she’s more than happy to pay for it.

Donna forgets about money, however, when they step outside of Dean’s diner. She turns to laugh with him about something, but whatever it is slips her mind as soon as his lips come down on hers. He’s not rough or hard like his exterior suggests, like the heat in his eyes when he shot that selkie suggested. No, instead, the kiss is warm and sweet and soft. Dean’s lips are chapped, but he tastes like the peppermints from the basket at the hostess station.

When Donna sighs against his mouth, Dean murmurs, “Back to your hotel?”

All she can do is nod.

The walk back to the hotel is possibly the longest walk of her life. Dean stops her sometimes to kiss her, hands almost roaming but never landing anyplace that Donna wants him to touch. Between her legs, she starts to thrum with need, toes curling against the foam soles of her flip-flops. That Dean feels that too…she doesn’t know what to do with that. Donna’s never been wild or adventurous. She’s always just been Donna Hanscum, small-town divorcee sheriff with a weakness for cookie dough milkshakes.

No one like Dean has ever tried to approach her before, but Lord, how this man has gotten under her skin.

When they reach her hotel room, Dean and Donna fly inside. Their mouths fuse together and it’s magic, not like something out of one of Donna’s romance novels but something even better than that, something raw, lacking poetry but not tenderness.

With strong arms, Dean heaves her up and presses her back against the door. He nips at the sensitive skin behind Donna’s ear and she lets out a soft moan. When she coils her legs around Dean’s waist, he grinds against her. Through her cotton underwear, she can feel the erection trapped in his jeans.

“Goddamn – gorgeous,” Dean murmurs into her neck.

Donna huffs and rolls her eyes. For whatever reason, this makes Dean pull back. His eyes meet hers, serious and very, _very_ green. He says, “You don’t believe me?” She must not answer fast enough, because Dean continues, “Well, I’m gonna show you just how fucking gorgeous you are, sweetheart. Gonna take you apart piece by piece, give you everything you deserve.”

A noise of surprise bubbles up from Donna’s throat when Dean jerks away from the door. He doesn’t drop her – just carries her all the way to the bedroom nook of the hotel room, where he deposits her on the bed and backs off to shed his coat and shoes, and tug his t-shirt over his head. Dean has a curious, pagan-looking tattoo on his chest, and a number of nicks and scars all over.

“You get so strong from huntin’ what isn’t natural?” she asks.

“Probably,” Dean says, and surges over her, caging Donna in with muscled limbs. He leans down to capture her lips in another kiss. His teeth catch against her lower lip and she gasps, arching up to get closer to him, to feel that warmth wrap around her.

“Shh,” Dean says, and nuzzles his stubbled jaw against her cheek, “We’ll get to that. For now, you just sit back and enjoy, you hear?”

Dean reaches underneath her sundress and shucks it off with a surprising amount of skill, leaving Donna in a set of underwear that she’s starting to think is too practical to be wearing in this situation. She should have worn something slinky and lacy – but she doesn’t even have anything slinky and lacy, even back home. Still, Dean looks her up and down, admiring even though she’s only in a plain, blue bra and a set of panties with cats printed on them.

“Pretty pussy,” he says, a devilish smile on his face at his own play on words. The words come out in a low growl that sends needle-pricks of need all over her skin. He reaches between her legs and strokes over her through the cotton, cursing a soft, “Damn,” before he slips them down over her legs.

Now she’s a little self-conscious.

Donna has stretch marks on the underside of her belly pooch, little bits of evidence of her weight fluctuating the way it does. Dean frowns at her and goes from dirty-talking devil to something almost sweet. He asks, “Hey, you all right?”

“Yeah,” she says, “Just the stretch marks. Don’t like ‘em very much.”

And Dean, instead of replying, ducks in and puts his mouth against the marks. He kisses over them, each one. With his breath ghosting over her belly, his gaze flicks up to her, and Dean says, “Most women got these, you know. They’re nothin’ you should feel bad about.”

Dean climbs back over her and presses wet kisses along the column of her neck again. He kisses from neck to ear and over her cheek, peppering kisses all the way to her lips, where he presses his tongue against her and lets out a strained groan of his own.

There’s something extremely flattering in watching Dean Winchester come undone against her.

Rough palms run down her arms and then slide under her back, where he unclips her bra without batting a lash. Donna helps him pull it away from her. To her surprise, she doesn’t feel exposed like this, at least, not with Dean. He just gives her this easy, boyish smile and cups each breast in either palm, flicking his calloused thumbs over her nipples. She gasps out a tiny, “ _Ooh_ ,” and Dean’s grin grows.

This time when Dean kisses her neck, he kisses down, and down and down, until he runs the flat of his tongue over one nipple, teasing it to life with a pinch of his fingers before he leans in close sucks it into his mouth. He rolls his tongue and teeth along the sensitive skin and Donna can’t help the noises that she starts to make. No one’s ever paid this much attention to her in bed before.

Dean pays the same attention the second breast that he paid the first, sucking and nipping, his rough jaw scraping against the soft skin there. And then he’s kissing between her breasts, down and down again, over her navel and the round swell of her hips and soft hill of her belly.

He affords her another look right before he dips his face down in between her legs, using those palms to part her thighs and spread Donna out wide. Dean starts a slow torture of pleasure, kissing and scraping teeth over the insides of her thighs and right against the crease where leg meets pelvis. Donna starts to quiver.

She doesn’t even recognize her voice when she lets out a tiny, “Please.”

When Dean shifts and runs his tongue over her clit, Donna just about melts into a puddle, right there on the mattress.

The way that he licks along her is careful, thoughtful. He’s giving her nothing but teasing and everything but what she wants.

Then, _finally_ , he licks a long stroke inside her. She whimpers and bucks into it, but Dean keeps her pinned down with legs out, licking deeper into her and moving up to pay equal attention to her clit. Already she feels the build of her orgasm low in her abdomen and tries again to push against Dean for more, only to be met with his strength keeping her in one place.

“I’ve got an idea,” Dean says, and before Donna can think of what he could possibly mean by that, Dean’s hands lift her by the waist, propping her up on her knees while he lies back with his head against the pillows. He reaches for her and says, “C’mon, ride it out on my face. You’re real close. I can tell.”

Donna licks her lips and edges forward, egged on by the absolutely salacious expression on Dean’s face. When she’s close against him, feeling his steady breath between her legs, Dean curls his hands around the back of her thighs and pulls Donna on top of him. A satisfied moan spills out of her at the first touch of Dean’s tongue, lapping right into her. She grinds down on his face, urging more inside her, getting pressure on her clit right where she wants it.

Oh. Oh, that’s nice.

Donna starts to move her hips, and this time, Dean doesn’t do anything but hang on for the ride, blunt ends of his fingernails digging into the fleshy backs of her thighs. The closer she gets, the build growing higher and higher like the crescendo of a symphony. With a choked cry of, “Oh, Jesus,” Donna comes, spasming around Dean’s tongue. Now, he holds her tight again, licking all the way through one hell of an orgasm, prolonging it as much as he can.

And then she’s somehow on her back again. Dean is at the side of the bed, undoing his leather belt and fiddling with his fly with considerably less grace than he removed her bra with.

Naked Dean is one of the most wonderful things that she’s laid eyes on. His legs are thick and muscled like his arms, and he doesn’t have the defined six pack of the hero on the cover of a romance novel, like she thought he would. Instead, his belly’s just a little soft, just like hers. And god, his cock. It’s big and gorgeous and clearly ready to go, poor thing.

Dean plucks his jeans off of the ground just long enough to fiddle in the back pocket. He pulls out a condom and mutters, “Could’ve made a hell of a boy scout,” before he rips the packet open and rolls the condom over his erection, head tossed back at the pressure finally being applied where it needs to be.

And damn it, he still asks her, “How d’you like it?”

“Face to face,” Donna says hazily, “Wrap m’legs around your waist.”

“Fuck,” Dean curses, and he’s on her just like that. Dean hoists her legs up around him and grips his cock at the base. He slides the head into her real slow, and then without a warning he thrusts all the way inside. It’s just the kind of fullness that Donna wants to feel, and the kind of pleasure that she wants to give Dean.

She tightens her legs around him and whispers, “Go.”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls out and pushes back in again, pace maddeningly slow. His thrusts in and out of her are steady as a pulse, hard and thorough and wonderful. His breath is coming harder, and bead of sweat drips from his hairline and down his forehead, where he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Then, Dean braces himself with hands planted firmly into the mattress, and _fucks_. He drives into her in a way that no one ever has. Most people, even though Donna is trained in hand to hand combat and firearms, treat her delicately in the sheets, like she might break if they’re rough with her. Not Dean, though. Of course Dean wouldn’t follow the pattern.

No, Dean goes so fast and so hard that she has to hang onto his shoulders just so that they don’t slip apart. He kisses her, hard, as he pistons in and out.

“Christ, Donna,” Dean lets out, “Killin’ me, sweetheart.”

Donna clamps her legs tighter around his waist and catches onto his rhythm, riding back to meet each move that his body makes. That has Dean coming apart at the seams, groaning and mumbling and pressing into her neck to kiss the damp skin there.

When Dean comes, he pulls Donna up, slams inside of her one final time, and settles her onto his lap, where he kisses her swollen lips and pants out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“Well, dang,” he says.

Donna laughs. Dean laughs too, and it’s good. It’s nice. Even as Dean pulls out of her and stumbles off to the bathroom to toss the condom in the trash, she feels so good that she doesn’t even mind being a little cold from lacking a bed partner. When he treks back to the bed, he has a satisfied little smile on his face.

The smile drops to vulnerability, though, and he clutches at the back of his neck when he asks, “Can I, uh. Can I stay?”

Donna responds by opening her arms, an embrace that Dean climbs directly into. They fall asleep like that: Dean with his head pillowed by Donna’s breast, his arm thrown over her waist and their legs tangled together.

Donna’s pretty sure that this is the best vacation that anyone has had, ever.

**X**

Donna rolls over and stretches out her arms. She murmurs, “Good morning,” but when she doesn’t get a reply back, she opens her eyes.

The bed is empty but for her. She slides up into a sitting position, a pleasant soreness between her legs, and crawls over to see that not only is Dean missing, but his clothes are too.

That shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. And Donna would like not to be disappointed by that, but she is. She just had the best sex of her life with a man that hesitated to request to cuddle afterward but looked so excited to stay.

Well, Dean had been pretty good at getting clothes off fast. He probably does things like this all the time, whether or not he’s been saved from a selkie by the one night stand in question.

And Jesus, if the memory of the selkie doesn’t open up an entirely different can of worms. If there are things like that everywhere, things that crawl up on the beach to eat young men or Peruvian-whatchamacallits, then Donna should be prepared. She should know how to protect herself from these things, but she doesn’t know where she would start. If Dean had stayed, she could have asked him.

But, as per usual, she’s left alone.

Donna sighs and shifts onto her back again, reaching over to pull her cellphone off of the bedside table and check the time. It’s just past eight in the morning. She could still sleep a little more, and then maybe she’ll go out and get her nails done to cheer herself up.

The scrape of the room door opening jolts her from her train of thought. Who could that even be? It’s too early for housekeeping to be making the rounds. Crap, what if it’s another one of those selkies? What if it’s a sister of the dead selkie that wants to get its revenge? She wracks her brain for the way to kill a selkie and recalls Dean saying the words _bronze bullet, bitch_.

Donna does not have any bronze bullets. Instead, she opts for the closest thing that she can use as a weapon, which turns out to be a ballpoint pen with the name of the hotel printed on the side. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do. She’s a big girl and she knows how to take down a bad guy when the time calls for it.

She hears footsteps and slides quietly out of the bed.

It is not a selkie that rounds into the bedroom.

It’s Dean.

The ballpoint pen drops to the floor and Donna accuses, “You scared me!”

“Were you about to stab me with a pen?” Dean asks.

“It was the best weapon I could find on short notice,” Donna defends, and then adds more softly, “I thought you took off.”

“I brought you something, actually,” he says, and calls attention to the Styrofoam cup in his hand.

Donna takes it from him and asks, “What is it?”

“Cookie dough milkshake,” he says.

Donna gives him an incredulous look, and Dean goes on, “Look, I remember you sayin’ way back when at Canyon Valley that your douchecanoe ex-husband called it quits ‘cause you like those,” – he gestures to the milkshake – “better than him. And I just wanted to…tell you not to give that son of a bitch the time of day, I guess. You’re kickass, and you’re gorgeous, and you’d still be gorgeous with fifty pounds of cookie dough milkshake added to the mix.”

Dean leans in and brushes his lips over her forehead. This feels nothing like a one-night stand should, and much more like somebody cares about her. He gives her a half-smile and says, “You should eat as many goddamn cookie dough milkshakes as you can, just to spite the bastard.”

A surprised burst of laughter explodes from her mouth and she leans forward to kiss Dean’s lips again before she suggests, “You wanna share it?”

“Sounds awesome,” Dean grins.

They climb back into bed and kiss and touch in between cold, sweet bites of the most delicious cookie dough milkshake that Donna has ever had. When the cup is empty, they fall against each other and Dean pulls another condom out of his pocket. Donna rides him in his lap and accepts sticky-sweet cookie dough milkshake flavored kisses all over.

In the aftermath, Dean tells Donna that being a hunter means that he drives all over the country when he hears about a supernatural-sounding case. He says that he and his brother have a home base in Kansas, but that it’s more home to Dean than it is to Sam.

“How am I supposed to take care a’ these things?” Donna asks him.

“Well, not with a ballpoint pen, that’s for sure,” Dean says, “Unless a ghost was attached to it, I guess.” He slips away from Donna’s side and bends over toward his jacket. From it, he retrieves a gleaming knife.

“This is a good place to start,” Dean tells her, and holds the knife out with the handle out to her. She takes it and runs a fingertip over the symbols etched into the metal. Dean goes on, “That’ll get rid of demons. If you ever see a fucker with full-on black eyes, you show ‘em what’s what with this, okay? Werewolves y’need silver bullets for and to get rid of ghosts you salt and burn their remains. There’s a ton of other shit out there so…I’m gonna put a couple numbers in your phone. You call if you ever come across something that don’t smell right, and me n’ Sammy will come.”

After Dean and Donna redress, they kiss one last time. Dean says that he’ll see her around, to take good care of his knife and then hesitantly he ends with, “And you take care of yourself too, you hear me?”

“Only if you do the same,” Donna answers.

She watches Dean walk across the hotel lot until he disappears around the block and thinks that maybe she isn’t Donna Hanscum: Sheriff anymore, but Donna Hanscum: Hunter.


End file.
